


Demon In My View

by redfantasyfox



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redfantasyfox/pseuds/redfantasyfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For six years Armin Arlert has kept his incurable illness a secret; even his best friend, Prince Eren, has no idea he's slowly dying from the inside out. But now that the prince has come of age, dozens of other lesser royals have arrived at Jaeger Keep in the hopes of stealing his heart--leaving Armin, alone and in love (dare he admit it), to try and save the kingdom before his time runs out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Battered and Bloody

I remember the first time Eren found me, battered and bloody in the corner of the courtyard. He was still wearing his festival clothes from the day before, the royal purple draped across his body, even his little golden crown still tangled in the unruly tresses of his light brown hair. I think I stammered his name, tried to get to my feet so I could bow, but he just forced me back onto the ground again, his hand warm against my bare chest.

"Those boys won't bother you anymore," he said, kneeling down in the dust and dirt to rip strips of cloth from his sleeves. "And if they do, come find me, I'll take care of it."

At the time, I wasn't sure what was more shocking: the fact that the prince of Jaeger Keep was talking to me, the fact that he had torn his ridiculously expensive clothing in the hopes of bandaging my cuts, or the fact that he had told off the bullies that had been harassing me for the last five months. Worse, I had no idea how to even begin expressing my gratitude, how to do more than just stare into his brilliant green eyes and watch his long, careful fingers as they brushed against my skin to clean up the blood welling beneath his hands.

So I did what perhaps any thankful person would do; I leaned forward and kissed him.

It was both of our firsts, and it was clumsy, but Eren was kind and willing against my lips, his smile so bright I could see it with my eyes closed. I don't know how it started, but suddenly we were both laughing, the two sounds mixing together with the ease of old friends, our hands finding each other's like we were never meant to keep them apart. "Come back to the castle with me," Eren whispered, keeping our foreheads pressed together after we finally broke apart. "Show me how to sing, and read and write and dance, like you can. Show me how to be happy."

I must have agreed, I must have, because the next thing I knew Eren was helping me to my feet, holding my hand and walking me back to his room. I slept for the first time in years in a warm bed, with soft sheets and a fluffy pillow, the rhythmic breathing of someone beside me creating a level of comfort I had never known.

Dare I believe it, even for a moment, but for the first in my life I felt like I was home.

/

I remember the second time Eren found me, battered and bloody in the corner of the courtyard, but unlike the first time, which had been sweet and compassionate and hopeful, this time it was to tell me that he was dying. The problem was, I already knew that, and the reason my hands were full of blood was because I had been trying to claw through his door to see him, the bruises on my ribs from heartless doctors kicking me out of their way. I was only nine years old-I refused to lose my best friend without at least saying goodbye.

"How did you get out?" I asked him, reaching up to steady him as he swayed precariously in place. "And you really shouldn't have, you look like-"

"I don't care what I look like," he replied, nudging my hands aside. "They wouldn't let me see you, even though they know you can't catch what I have. So what does it matter if I sneak out?"

There was still mischief in his eyes, despite everything, even the pain I saw in the grimace he tried to suppress and the headache he was failing poorly to hide. He wasn't afraid, the Eren I knew would never be afraid, but he was hurting, and that broke my heart.

"Tell me what I can do," I whispered to him, curling my thin arms around his chest, feeling his bones through his jacket because of all the weight he'd lost. I held him closer, feeling the beat of his heart against mine, the thrum of his lungs as he inhaled and exhaled in time with me. "I want to help you. I'll do anything, just ask."

Before he could answer, he started coughing. The effort made his body tremble, but he didn't push me away, even when he moved the back of his hand from his mouth and saw it was covered in red splotches.

"I think I'm dying," he said to me, sounding sad.

"You're too young to die," I said back to him, even though I knew hundreds of people younger than him had already died from this illness, hundreds older, hundreds more. "And you're too strong. You'll be okay."

But we were only children, and we knew nothing of the world and the power of death. All we knew was fear, and as I held Eren's hand, felt the cool touch of his skin, shared the shiver that slipped up his spine and made his face run pale, I knew something else. I knew, no matter what, that I was going to save him.

/

I remember the third time Eren found me, battered and bloody in the corner of the courtyard, but this time there was no explanation for either, just anger and sadness and frustration and bitterness. "Where have you been?" He wanted to know, the fire back in his eyes, the strength back in his step. "I almost died and you've been gone for three weeks?"

"Eren," I said, careful and gentle, like his fingers had once been when we were children and he was bandaging my cuts with his shirt. "You just don't remember. I've been with you every day of every week of every month of every year for four years. I've sat by your bed, held your hand, stroked your hair, I even sang. Why don't you remember?"

I should be exhausted-this is not the first time we've had this argument-but already I see the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the rage in his body bleeding out of him through his feet; the sickness has taken a toll on all of us, but him most of all. With a sigh he dropped down beside him, shoving his head between his knees. From the flush of red creeping up his neck, he felt humiliated.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm trying. But it's like everything in my head is coated with mist. Sometimes I look at Mikasa and don't even know her name."

"She's only been your sister for six months," I reminded him, patting his knee while trying to keep my voice light. "Even I haven't gotten used to her yet."

Eren looked up and smiled, still sheepish, but beyond that youthful charm I can see how much this was killing him, maybe even more so than the sickness ever had. The fact that his father was so sure he was going to die, the fact that his father had adopted another heir, it stung a very deep part of him that he never imagined could ever be reached; now, with it out in the open, he discovered it raw and vulnerable, aching with a pain he could do nothing about.

Finally, even though the haze was starting to build up again behind his eyes, he had just enough sense left to ask me why I was bleeding, why I was nursing a broken wrist and a cut lip. I gave him an answer that wasn't even near half true, but he accepted it because he trusted me and because soon he was going to forget he saw me today, or yesterday, or the day before, and in the morning I'll be clean and bandaged and he'll be none the wiser.

I tell him the lie because it's easier, because I'm thirteen and the sacrifice that I made to save his life was stupid and dangerous and absolutely insane. Still, knowing that I can still hold his hand, still press my lips to his and breathe in the smell of him, the taste of him, that I can still read him stories that make him laugh, tell him jokes that make his sides hurt, and see him smile even when he doesn't mean it, that makes what I did completely worth it. To get even one more day of him and me and us and this, that was worth more than anything.

Wasn't it?


	2. Personas

The day before Eren's coronation stands out in my memory with excruciating detail, the smell of spring heavy on the wind, the taste of rain faint in the distance. It was the first whisper of dawn that had startled me awake, the tender warmth of the sun brushing gently against my cheek with the timid nature of a butterfly. It was a kind touch, curious and patient, gliding across my skin, curling around my ear, my jaw, my nose, my lips. It stilled there for a while, almost afraid, but then moved away as if out of guilt; to this day I can still hear Eren turning in his sheets, pulling away from me, his nearly-inaudible sigh heavy with anger and loss.

His pain had always made my heart ache, especially after he fully recovered from his illness, because I always felt like my sacrifice should have protected him from this, from hurting like this ever again; instead, all I can do is reach out, my hand sliding slowly out from under my pillow and stretching into the space between us. I was staring at his back, watching his shoulders move when he breathed, watching his muscles flex as he shivered...

My hand connected with cool skin, his reaction a small gasp from the other side of the bed. He tensed up at first, his body hard and unforgiving under my touch, but then he relaxed when he felt me pushing forward, wrapping my arm around his body and pulling him backwards into my chest. I curled up my legs beneath his, locking us together as close as we could, and then we just lay there, lost to time, Eren's restlessness slowly bleeding out of him.

After a while, he said my name--just my name, quiet and slow, like he meant everything he was trying to say with it. His voice was barely a murmur, as soft and fragile as he felt in my grasp, his laugh breathless with exhaustion.

I didn't have the strength to tell him, not then and not now, but at that time I needed him even more than he needed me. Memories like this were all I had to cling to when the world was dark and heavy and pushing down on the back of my head with enough force to shatter my spine; sometimes I even believed that if I kept it close enough to my heart, held it harder, tighter, then I could use the feeling of Eren's breath on my skin, the smell of him in my nose, the taste of him on my tongue, to fight off the shadow of death I knew was growing in the bottom of my soul. Usually, it was just enough; usually, but not that day.

Eren had been mumbling for a while, his chest buzzing against mine. "What would I do without you?" He asked, reaching up to take my hands in his, rubbing his thumb against my knuckles. He was so sweet when he wanted to be. So sweet.

"You'd do a lot," I replied, my voice managing to sound just as convinced as I felt. I nuzzled the back of his neck, using the pause to push back memories of his illness, the way he always shook and screamed like his skin was on fire, the way his ears and eyes wept blood, the way death clouded thick behind his eyes. "I can't imagine your life being all that much different from the way it is now."

Eren turned then, at that, but was careful to stay in my arms. "For all your smarts," he said with incredible seriousness, "you can be such a fool sometimes."

I expected the kiss before he leaned in, and although I wasn't sure I could handle it, I moved to meet him halfway. At first we're rather cautious, pressed together in a moment of indecision and reassurance, but then, before I realized it, we're meeting together in a harsh collision of bitter and sweet, desperate and hungry like either of us might just disappear if the other doesn't hold on hard enough. His hands grip the front of my shirt as he pushes me back, his chest lifting from the bed as he angles on top of me, his weight shoving me down, imprisoning me beneath his body. My hands twined in his hair, frantic in my efforts to keep his mouth as close to mine as I could, crazed as I sought something deeper inside him, something hotter and more raw than I'd ever known.

We're a flurry of kisses, hard and hasty and feverish, our bodies moving into each other with the ease that came from years of practice. When his lips reached my neck I was reduced to only muffled moans, his mouth wicked and teasing. When he moved lower, forceful and wild, like an animal, I could only stop him by twisting my legs through his and quickly flipping him onto his back, his eyes wide with the lust I knew my own body betrayed.

"We...we can't do this, not now," I stammered, my throat dry. "You have people to see today."

"I've already seen all the people I need to see today," he shot back, his expression unwavering and uncompromising. "They can wait."

"Eren," I said, meaning to chastise him, but his name is forced from my lips in almost a speak. I dropped my head, my mind blanking in favour of the sensations he was sparking all across my skin, his hand caressing my stomach, my hip, my thigh, then lower. I became an embarrassing mess of groans and halfhearted protests, writhing against him like my body was outside my control, nothing but instinct. I fell onto his chest, my arms trembling from the terrible effort it took to keep myself upright, all the while Eren relentless in his movement beneath me, laughing gently against my cheek as I scrambled desperately for the coherency to return the attention.

"Don't worry about it," he had whispered, like he knew how much I needed this, needed him and me and us and _this_. I needed more, more like I was drowning, more like I was dying--I needed the way he pulled sweet nothings from my mouth, the way he made my skin burn at his touch, the way he could kiss me and tell me everything I've ever wanted to know and more.

/

The Eren from those mornings were never the Eren I saw outside of his bedroom, even here, the two of us completely alone, just steps outside the throne room. Here he was calm, reserved, even princely if such an emotion existed; his eyes said business, his glorious white suit said power, his deep purple embroidery said royalty. Everything about him was just...wrong.

"You look good, Eren," I said softly, trying to inspire something from him, something even at the edge of his lips that made him remember where we had just been, what we had just been lost in doing. But in his face, no matter where I looked, there was nothing.

This was serious, serious as nothing either of us have ever known; everyone who showed up today, from the lowest of nobles to the highest of kings, they all wanted what I had just the tiniest taste of--they wanted Eren, magnificent beside them, holding their hand on a throne decked in gold and red, showering them with both the power of the monarchy and the affection of a loving spouse. Even to picture it, just then, his smiling face next to theirs, fingers intertwined, their laughter mixing together like the most stunning of harmonies...I'd always expected it, always, but it made the truth no less easy to bare.

I had never wanted the throne, despite what the rumours had said at the time; since the very first day I met Eren, I had wanted nothing but his happiness. If that meant he had to be with someone else, that I had to be pushed aside in favour of someone taller and smarter and funnier and braver, then fine. But even knowing this, believing this, wanting this, to trail after him as he pushed into the throne room, to hear the cheering that greeted him, to see all the faces that lit up at the sight of him, it hurt me because suddenly this was real, losing Eren was real, and I was never, and would never, be prepared for that.

/

I remember so few of the faces from that day, names and titles and unique characteristics mashing together to create only a mess of crazy colours and blurry movement. Eren grew tired more quickly then I had expected, but he hid it with more skill that I imagined possible; every man and woman who stepped up before him, kissed his hand, showered him in gifts, he entertained them all, repeated back their names, thanked them for their interest. It was almost as if the Eren I grew up with had been swallowed behind the man who now sat beside me, his loose and restless nature completely scraped in favour of the royal facade he now displayed.

I have never possessed the ability to aptly describe this change in him, but perhaps I could come close. It was the way the sun tangled around his features, bringing out the sharp definition of his cheeks, his jaw, his hands, his chest; it was the quiet power that burned in his eyes, the promise of strength and courage and bravery and more; it was the quirk to his smile, the sly way it slipped away from him, the movement of his cape as it clung to his shoulders like a ghost, the brilliant glisten of his crown as it sat nestled just above his brow. He was born to be a leader, his stance always seemed to say so, the very air around his head heavy with confidence and assurance. He was, and had always been, born to be a king.

/

It was the shrill call of evening that signaled the arrival of the last few suitors, the sound of bells, the cruel rush of chill wind that fluttered in through the windows. Down the lane we could just see their silhouettes, clumped together due to their distance, and at last Eren seemed to relax, counting no more than four men with a dozen guards between them.

"You musn't look so pleased," I whispered, poking him playfully in the side. I realized my misstep too late, but Eren reacted only with a shake of his head.

The first of the four to arrive was a princess from one of the western provinces, her face lost to me now but her voice, heavy with a strange accent I couldn't place, still something I can distantly recall. The second was a prince from the northernmost province, the fur lining his boots, sleeves and hood a flurry of colour surely no living animal could have provided. The third...the third stood out, from all the rest, for reasons I didn't know and didn't understand, not then. "Jean Kirstein," he had said, bowing low with his fist clenched over his heart. "From Trost."

In the sea of names and faces and titles that I had been bombarded with all day, he really should have just been another suitor; his clothing was unremarkable, grey and brown and gold, his entrance unhindered and unflourished, his introduction short and to the point. But the longer I stared at him, the less ordinary he seemed to become. His dark hair was shaved almost against his skin at the back, the coiffured style of the light brown that framed the top of his head lending him an intriguingly militaristic look; his bearing betrayed an arrogance off-set by his demeanor, his expression nothing but respect and honour. But his eyes--

As he looked up, his gaze restless, he finally noticed me kneeling next to Eren, the tiniest flicker of something showing through on his face. Immediately I found myself lost in the intensity of his hazel eyes, an intensity that was almost familiar somehow. It took me a long while, and it wasn't even until he was turning to leave that I realized his eyes had reminded me of Eren's--it was the crazy determination I saw there, the shocking level of ambition and passion for life that had always seemed so unique to my best friend. Now, it find it in another man, carried so easily it could be a well-made pair of gloves, I could hardly comprehend it; it was like running into two demigods, each sharing a tiny, tiny piece of each other's indescribable power. As ridiculous as it should have been, perhaps, I only remember being stunned, stunned more absolutely than I could care to admit.

Eren, of course, had seen none of that. "He looks like a horse," he had said, his careless observation giving no justice to the worth of the man that had just been in his presence. "Please take him off the list of potentials."

I took out the folded sheet of paper from my vest as ordered, finding Jean's name near the middle. But when my quill was a hair over the letters, so close the ink was welling between the tip and the parchment, I found I just couldn't. "Are you sure?" I asked. "He seemed...put together, didn't he?"

Eren frowned, his irritation further emphasized when he wrinkled his nose. "So are picnics," he said carefully, "what's your point?"

Knowing I could never explain myself, not really, I just shrugged and hurriedly scratched out his name before I could convince myself to do otherwise. "Nothing," I whispered. "I guess I'm just trying to make this list look less empty."

I could feel Eren's eyes on the side of my face for a heartbeat longer, perhaps sensing my lie, but thankfully he decided it wasn't worth his time. When he looked back towards the door, waiting for the last of the suitors, I reached unconsciously for my chest, willing myself to breathe less rapidly, less hard. I needed to be better composed; I needed to better control myself.

The last suitor to arrive was King Erwin, welcomed into Jaegar Keep with a procession of trumpets neither too elaborate to overplay his status nor too little to underplay it. He was the ruler of the province just before the edge of Wall Maria, and was, I thought, better regarded than anyone else in the country; the defense of the entire kingdom, after all, rested with him, his soldiers the best trained, his tactics some of the most renowned in history. Accordingly, I noticed the immediate shift in Eren, the extra attention he offered freely to this man--if there were a way to better emphasize how much a 'potential' Erwin was besides circling his name three times on the list, I'd had done it.

For now, however, Eren and Erwin only exchanged light pleasantries, the king clearly exhausted from a long day of travel. He was imposing, even from his place at the foot of the podium, his build like a prize-winning stallion. Interestingly enough, though, it was the man at his side that drew my attention.

He hadn't been introduced yet, but I could guess his importance from the style of his uniform. He was short, maybe even shorter than me at the time, with black hair cut just above his ears and an expression that dared anything in life to surprise him. At his throat was a frill of white cloth, giving him a classy, almost sophisticated look, and his eyes were dark as night, heavy with a brooding strength that could rival any nightmare. He was not to be underestimated, that was undeniable, but to what extent that warning would go I could never have imagined.

He struck just as Erwin had excused himself, saying, completely deadpan, "Thank fucking god you took your sweet-ass time, this room looks like it was decorated by a colourblind toddler with every intention of giving me a migraine."

I remember so clearly the immediate stiffness that seized almost everyone in the room, the shock that shone even through Erwin's impressive composure. For a gruelingly long moment no one so much as breathed, even me.

But then, out of nowhere, Eren started to laugh. It was an explosive sound, genuine and honest, and it was as if his entire persona had shattered to leave, for a brief moment, the kindhearted youth I had come to love with everything I had. When he finally came down from his high he pushed his fingers through his hair, ruffling the style into an unintelligible mess that very clearly showed his opinion on this man's outburst.

"I'm so glad you think so," he said, his tone tangling with an almost pathetic amount of relief. "I hate the decorations in here. I was absolutely convinced I was the only one."

As Eren composed himself again, dropping his eyes for a moment, I caught the barest flicker of something in the other man's expression. It might have been...amusement? But it was gone too fast for me to be sure, buried quickly behind a wall of boredom just as Eren looked back up.

"You will need to forgive him," Erwin was saying, trying his best to keep his tone lighthearted but failing miserably. "This is Levi Rivaille, the captain of my guard."

I expected Eren to say something out of place, now that his princely facade was destroyed, but instead he said, "There's nothing to forgive."

That should have been the end of it, the _end_ , but he added with a smirk, "I gather, from the fact that he's the only member of your personal guard, that he makes up for his mouth with his sword?"

Levi caught the subtle implication in Eren's words without batting an eye, spitting it right back up at him before Erwin could comment. "Watch it kid," he snapped, an odd tugging at the edge of his lips, "or maybe I'll just have to show you what my sword can do."

He should have been arrested, or fined, or in the very least reprehended--even I would never address Eren like that--but Eren just raised an eyebrow and waved him off, completely undisturbed by Levi's rebuttal. There was almost a playfulness to Eren's smirk, a nonchalance that twisted into something resembling anger in Levi's eyes. Thankfully, before either of them could make the situation worse, someone signaled for the closure of the throne room, a hastiness that pushed for the prince to get himself ready for the night's grand address.

Eren, oddly enough, allowed himself to be taken away, my steps only a stride behind his. Although I didn't have his consent, didn't have his permission, I knew he wouldn't correct me--quickly, without making a sound, I pulled out the list again and added another name, hurried and sloppy, to the bottom, feeling more like a prophet than I ever dared believe. But then, seeing it there, the letters proud and stark against the faded colour of the parchment, I felt my anger bubble up inside, rage colouring my eyes.

I scratched it out.


	3. By Any Other Name

Dancing with Eren, even the first time, came naturally to me; he was taller, I was older, we were strangers, but still I loved the weight of his hands on my skin, the movement of his body in time with mine, even the thankfulness in his eyes that was, I had thought, an automatic for everyone. It had been at a festival meant to commemorate the death of the queen, and while he tried, again and again, the art of dance eluded him with a terrible vengeance. I can still remember the way frustration coloured his face, the way anger pulled his jaw, because while he had a good sense of balance, strong rhythm, direction, even timing, simple movement that demanded careful footwork under the guiding hand of classical music seemed, at that time, downright impossible for him. People watched, a few even laughed, but no one had the nerve to approach him. As a child, I didn't understand why; ignorance made me fearless, even in the presence of the prince.

"Don't look so sad," I had said to him, offering out my hand in its stained, off-white glove. "We can dance together. I know the steps."

There were soldiers all around me, waiting for some signal that I meant to strike, but in my eyes I saw only Eren, only his pain, and while my gesture was small, I could tell it brightened his heart. "Show me," he had replied, getting to his feet. "Show me the dance."

Perhaps he had been tricked before, and that explained his caution; maybe he truly thought I was lying, that my intention was malicious and twisted; or maybe he just refused to believe a homeless orphan could dance before the statue of his mother with exactly the grace and elegance he thought she deserved. Whatever the truth, I danced with my heart on my sleeve, twirling and spinning around all on my own, knowing the movements like I knew the seasons, knowing the steps like I would come to know every line and scar on his face.

He stopped me before the music ended, taking my hand, touching my waist. "Teach me," he whispered. "I want to learn how to dance like you. I want to learn how to smile like you can."

I didn't think anything of it then, not why he was alone, not why he had agreed, and not why he would use similar words when he later came to find me after the festival was over. At the time all that mattered was taking him around the courtyard, telling him jokes when he stepped on my toes, laughing when he had nothing to say, and sharing with him the story of my life, the pieces that were happy and full of colour, the books I had read, I songs I could sing, even the silly old maps I could draw from memory. We were children and this was the only happiness I knew; this was the only happiness that counted.

/

I woke up to this memory the morning of Eren's coronation, his place in the bed beside me both cold and empty. He had dressed early, somehow managing to slip from my arms without waking me, and already I knew he was preparing for the crowning, pacing somewhere in a long, dark corridor, last minute notes stuffed up his sleeves with encouragements scrawled hastily along the sides. I had wanted to see him off, but perhaps it was better this way; I ate breakfast alone, his place at the table abandoned like a forgotten toy.

I ran into Mikasa just as the rest of the court was being ushered into the throne room, her red scarf too distinctive to miss. She smiled, as much as she could I suppose, but neither of us could hide the toll today would take on us. There would feasts and music and dancing, there would be speeches and tournaments and games, there would be performances and shows and who knew whatever else, all of which would require full attendance and full attention. Maybe there were people in the world who loved that, but for us we could only brace for the worst.

Of Eren's actual crowning I remember little, but the roses I remember best--the roses that decorated the podium, lined the steps, curled around the arms of his chair; the roses that hung from the ceiling, littered the isle, filled the windows; the roses that tangled in the sun, danced in the breeze, the roses with heart-shaped petals that fell softly to the earth like autumn leaves. They were the splendor of the occasion, loud and gentle and wild and soft; they were the glory of the morning, elegant and poised as only the stars could match.

Eren had stood alone at the front of the room, amidst the cheering and shouting and clapping and enthusiasm, but between us it felt like the room was empty, him and me in a sea of red and green. Somewhere in this expanse there was a single white rose, meant to bring good luck and good karma; like this moment it was hidden and fleeting, but of course still there for any with the skill and patience to find it.

/

Eren's first dance was supposed to be with Mikasa, as was tradition, but the hour drew fast and close without me ever seeing her again. After one of the events, the archery contest perhaps, she had just disappeared, the crowd swallowing her whole before I could so much as think to call out her name. Now, with the shadows dropping in through the windows, night crawling wicked and teasing along the streets, I realized she really had no intention of showing up.

Someone needed to tell Eren, someone aware enough to notice his sister's absence, but as the ballroom started filling up, colorful bodies squeezing into anywhere there was space, I knew that person would have to be me. Pushing forward proved to be impossible, however, my short, thin frame easily kept back from advancing through the crowd, so I took a back hallway instead.

The route I used was poorly lit--it was meant for servants, so I don't know what I was expecting--so emerging again into the ballroom almost blinded me. Eren noticed and laughed, coming up to wrap his hands around my neck out of sight from the people waiting below the balcony.

"What are you doing up here?" He asked, nodding to the guards that had let me in. "Shouldn't you be waiting with everyone else, reveling in my majesty?"

I rolled my eyes. "Very funny," I replied, taking a moment to nudge rogue hairs out of his face; realizing my fingers were lingering, I dropped my hand. "I just...Mikasa isn't coming."

There was a glimmer of surprise in Eren's eyes, followed quickly by confusion. "What do you mean?" He demanded, more resigned then angry. "She agreed to do this. She said--"

"I know, I know," I cut in, hating having to interrupt him. "But there's no time to wonder about that now. You just need to pick someone else to dance with, maybe one if your suitors." I hesitated a split second before adding, "maybe King Erwin. He's probably your best choice."

But even as I was talking, even before I had gotten through more than a few words, I knew he had made his decision. I still remember wondering, _did he already have a favorite, so soon into all this? Was there really someone else who could so quickly steal his heart?_ I should have been ashamed to think so.

Eren eventually voiced his thoughts, but instead of the cheeky, almost playful way he most often resorted to, there was instead a complete seriousness in his eyes. "Dance with me, Armin," he whispered, cradling my hands in both of his. "Do me the honor. Dance with me."

I had no words, no words at all. This was beyond me, this gesture too grand, too unbelievable. This was a dance meant for royals, meant to symbolize the newly crowned prince's most respected companion; even with that aside, there was still a room behind me full of people leaps and bounds more important than me, a room full of people who would judge me, judge him, judge _this_ , and he still...

Eren leaned forward and kissed me gently on the forehead, knowing my speechlessness was a breathless _yes_. "I'll see you soon," he murmured, turning sharply back to the balcony in an effort to hide his amusement. He adjusted the run of his collar, fixed his suit cuffs, then shot me a quick look over my shoulder. His eyes seemed to say something, something sweet and warm and comfortable, but then he was gone.

/

I wasn't ready for him, when he finally offered me his hand, when the room went quiet and the eyes started to turn, when the music lulled and the air turned to smoke. The weight of the moment became too much, the emotions running through my veins too paralyzing, but Eren just...waited.

His patience made this feel real, and despite my fear, unease, and disbelief, I stepped forward quickly to meet him. I moved one hand to his shoulder, the other into his fingers; he squeezed back gently, his free hand dropping to my waist.

As we waited for the orchestra to pick up again, Eren kept his eyes on the crowd. "Don't look at them," he whispered, feeling the tension in my side where his fingers rested against the thin fabric. "Just keep your eyes on me."

Watching the crowd had proved impossible, but this was far from a good alternative; Eren was beautiful, and strong, and was suddenly the perfect mix of the best friend I loved and the prince he needed to be. To have them both in my arms, the glory of his pride but the kindness of his heart...I was undone.

Leaning forward a little, into his chest, I hid my smile, hid my face. "I'm not nervous," I whispered back to him. "I'm just worried you won't remember all the steps. This was the very first dance we learned together, do you remember?"

For a moment I feared he wouldn't, the memory either too old or buried in too much pain; instead, he laughed, warm and genuine, and pressed his lips to my hair so no one would see. "I'll never forget," he said, "that was the day I realized I needed you in my life."

I must have flushed, I must have, but I remember only the searing heat that flashed up my spine. Thankfully, _thankfully_ , I managed to bury my embarrassment behind my concentration as we started dancing, the classical melody demanding movement and keeping attention away from my surely reddening face.

The song didn't last long enough; I breathed once, in and out, and suddenly it was over. There was a few seconds of polite clapping, as I expected there would be, but then there was a desperate clamor between everyone who wanted to take my place, a frantic yet restrained push forward that all but devoured me. Eren had only enough time to ask me to stay, to tell me we'd dance again, before turning to his collection of suitors and allowing one to take his hand.

I lost track of time after that, between dancing briefly with Eren and then losing him to someone else, but the night seemed endless and he always came back for me. After the third or fourth dance, however, some of his suitors began to realize the degree to which I monopolized Eren's time; they were courteous, to their credit, but it soon became clear what they were really after.

I found relief from them only by hiding out between dances among the waiting staff, my dark suit looking similar enough to theirs that I blended in with ease. The servants were kind to me--they'd always been--so when this tactic stopped working they offered me things to do, hiding me behind trays of food and wine that left me open for conversation only long enough to say hello.

Until, that is, I found someone worth a little more than that. 

"You look busy," the prince of Trost said with a laugh, accepting one of my offered drinks. "Having fun?"

"It keeps me from socializing," I admitted, appreciating his humour more than I could understand. He laughed again.

"I can sympathize. You wouldn't believe some of the windbags in here, won't shut up for hours." At that he quickly looked over his shoulder, as if afraid someone was close enough to overhear him--the gesture was comical, though, overdone and accompanied by an expression that did little to feign seriousness. I found myself smiling, despite being on guard; he wasn't the first suitor to precede an interrogation with jokes.

It was because of that apprehension that I refused the seat beside him when he offered, although he surprised me by not insisting on it. In fact, as the conversation progressed, it quickly became clear his interest in me held no ulterior motive, nothing outside genuine curiosity and friendliness. It was...it was actually really nice, spending time with him.

There was something about Jean, something that felt honest and trustworthy and authentic. I'm not sure what it was, his eyes, his mannerisms, his nonchalance, but whatever it was…I kind of liked it, so much so that when he asked me to dance I actually considered it.

"I promise not to step on your toes," he said, getting to his feet and offering me his hand. His smile was so easy, so good-natured, so unlike the intensity I had first seen in his eyes, the seriousness I was once so sure defined his face. 

Although I felt a little strange about it, I realized very quickly that I had no intention of turning down his request. I convinced myself, however, that I was agreeing because it made sense, because it would protect me from the other suitors for a while and allow me to stay close Eren; I was not, despite the nagging feeling at the back of my mind, agreeing for any other reason. Besides, surely I could handle one dance with a handsome stranger who hoped to marry my best friend—surely I could stand to have a little bit of fun tonight.

Jean, as it turned, how no idea how to dance. “I was so sure I knew this song,” he stammered, all but tripping over himself in an effort to keep up with the rhythm of the music. “I swear I’m usually better than this.”

Maybe I should have minded, but honestly I could hardly keep myself from laughing. His effort, even in the face of his inability, was really endearing, and his embarrassment turned him quickly from the suave, flirtatious Jean I had known from the past twenty minutes into the awkward, almost sheepish Jean I now had in my arms. “Just follow my lead,” I said, switching positions with him so I had my one hand at his hip. “I’ll show you the steps.”

He was an all-to-willing partner, mimicking my movements the best he could manage until he fell out of time and ended up scrambling to avoid my toes. In-between his struggles he joked almost nonstop, trying to mask his embarrassment behind the tears he brought to my eyes. I can’t remember it at all, I don’t know when it happened, or how, or why, but suddenly I felt like I was having the time of my life, laughing like we were the only two people in the room, caught up with the pacing of the music, the sound of his voice, and the rush of my heart as it beat against my chest, happy and full of light like it hadn’t been in a long time.

Eventually, though, the song ended, and we were left basically where we started save for the breathlessness that had overtaken both of us. There was a short lull in the music, perhaps in preparation for the next song, so I took the opportunity to step away from Jean, fidgeting a little under the strain of trying to find a way to thank him for dancing with me.

Although I expected he was about to do the same, he surprised me again by saying instead, “Oh, I actually know this song.” He turned his head towards the orchestra, nodding along with the slow and harmonic melody that was now floating across the room. He didn’t need to say it; I sensed the implication.

“I think one is enough for me,” I managed after a moment, hoping I didn’t sound rude or ungrateful. Maybe I hadn’t tried hard enough, because his face fell almost immediately. “I had a lot of fun, though,” I added quickly, ducking my head. “Thank you for that.”

When I found the courage to look back up at him, Jean had his hand on the back of his head and his eyes were on the other dancers. “Man,” he said, sounding quite wistful, “if I had known I would only get one dance with you, I would have saved my one dance for this.”

Whether or not that sentiment was true, it was still quite heartwarming; no one had ever said anything like that to me before, outside of Eren.

“Well, if you’re going to talk like that, I suppose I can fight off exhaustion for one more dance.”

Oh, his smile was something to behold; in truth, it made my heart ache, knowing I could affect someone I hardly knew like this. I sensed, inherently, that I should not be so swayed by this man, that surely he meant at some point to ask me all about Eren, but for the moment I enjoyed the attention, even if I believed it was feigned, at least somewhat.

“I promise I actually know this one,” he said, taking me into his arms again. “I’ll show you what I can do.” 

/

I couldn’t have said I was terribly surprised, but one more dance became two more dances, then another, and then another. The night seemed to slip through our fingers, the melody of a dozen songs bringing us together again and again. And for a long while, I was happy; I could forget my pain, the dark tendrils of cold flame that wormed deep in my soul; I could forget and it was wonderful.

Jean ended up being nothing like I had first expected. While there was still a determination to him, a strength and courage and bravery, there was also a softness, a caution. He wore his heart on his sleeve, no buffer at all between his emotions and his expressions, and spending time with him was refreshing if nothing else. By the end of the night we felt almost comfortable, stories of childhood shared between us, whispers of hopes and dreams tangled in the looseness of Champagne. I didn’t know what we had, and I didn’t need to know—for one night, it was all I could have ever wanted.

Eventually Eren caught up to us, my face flush with laughter and alcohol, and he touched my shoulder with just enough force to silently demand all of my attention. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said to Jean, eyeing him with a steeled expression I wasn’t used to see on his face. “But could I perhaps borrow your dance partner for a little while?” 

Immediately Jean stepped away from me, making no effort at all to offer resistance—not that he had any reason to. “Of course,” he said, returning Eren’s stare without flinching. “I can see why you like him--he’s an excellent dancer--but not to boast, I’m not terrible myself.”

And there it was, so quick I almost didn’t catch it. Jean had made his subtle move on Eren, reminding me with shocking violence of the reason he was here in the first place. Of course he was here for Eren, of course he had used me to get to him. Of course. Of course.

/

After my last dance with Eren, I decided I had finally had enough and went to find my jacket before turning in. It was late, well past midnight, but most of the guests would probably linger until dawn, or in the very least until Eren announced he was going to bed. A few seemed inclined to believe my departure preceded Eren’s, but a quick word of assurance sent them right back to the dance floor.

I was tired, so tired it took me substantially longer than it should have to find my jacket again. I had slung it against the back of a chair, but after sifting through an uncoordinated mess of them I finally found it nowhere close to where I remembered having left it. I was about to toss it haphazardly over my arm when something caught my eye, and turning it over…

There, hanging in the topmost button hole, was a single white rose, the very same white rose I was certain was now absent from the throne room. Someone must have gone back to find it, and for whatever reason, selfish or otherwise, they had given it to me; I held it close, feeling the brush of sweet honey, spring rain, and velvet against my nose. 

It was beautiful, but I did not deserve it; without thinking, about who or what or why or how, I brought the petals gently to my lips before leaving the flower behind on one of the satin-covered chairs. To this day I can still remember how beautiful I thought it was, but I knew, even then, that it had to have been a mistake.


	4. Know the Darkness Just as Well

My memory falters after the party. There's pockets, a split second of movement, of colour, of noise and light and feeling, but then only flashes. I don't know the route I followed or the doors I passed, the stairwells I climbed or the people I avoided-of that early morning I can remember only cobwebs and dust, clinging to dark stone, and the soft firelight from a torch that spluttered out into nothing.

I slept for a long time, dreamless and fretful.

I woke up on the roof.

It was the rain that hit me first, the feeling of it smashing against my skin, running down my cheeks, pooling under my head; next was the wind, fierce as a hurricane, slicing through my clothes and pulling at my bones; worst was the darkness, so thick I could hardly breathe; but last, last was the sensation that I was falling, the weightlessness so sudden I didn't even have time to scream.

The drop was only a few feet, maybe two, maybe three, but crashing into the stone again knocked the life right out of me. I was paralyzed for a long time, powerless as the storm raged all around me, forced to take in the bitterness of the cold, the brutal sting of the rain, until eventually I coaxed energy back into my limbs, warmth back into my fingers, and colour back into my eyes. I found, despite my pain, that I felt... _alive._

It was an incredible feeling, brutal and honest and raw, and suddenly I was struck by a demand for more, a need for more. Sitting up took effort, but I liked the feeling of my bruises moving over my muscles, the lightness that struck me between the eyes, the sparks that rampaged just behind my forehead. When I got to my feet I fell in love with the way the wind stole my balance, the way the rain made me feel like I was drowning. It was the taste of the risk, the pain, the danger, the racing of adrenaline in my blood, the wild thrum of my heart against my ribs. It was the awareness of being alive, of holding on, and I loved it.

/

I waited out the storm with a kind of endless patience, counting the minutes, the hours, the seconds, counting them all. Time became like raindrops in my hands, collecting just within my grasp, clinging close and fast; when I broke concentration they escaped all at once, their trails running thick and wet across my skin. These sensations, so quiet and gentle, became familiar, almost rhythmic, and as it grew warmer, as the storm became gentle, the wind like a blanket, the sun like the coming of spring, I found I had no need for it, my clothing damp but not uncomfortable, my breath misting only enough to barely be seen. Perhaps I could have stayed-I wanted to, even if only for a little bit longer-but I staggered to my feet without a word.

The roof of Jaegar Keep was sloped in odd places, the rain draining away in tiny rivers, but following them to the edge only made me want to jump, to fling myself over the parapet and dive into the misty whiteness below; I'm not sure where that feeling came from, and as much as the danger thrilled me, it terrified me just as much. I walked back along the stones, watching for dips that hid deeper puddles then my shoes could handle, and eventually I found a strip of cloth, caught between two jagged corners of rough rock. It was probably from my pants, or my jacket, I couldn't really be sure, but at least I had a direction, maybe an origin point, and I could work with that.

There was a ledge not far from there, a small protrusion in the wall that kept the rain from spilling out over the roof and down the side of the Keep. The drop was dizzying, but I relished in the moment I felt myself swinging downwards, hanging only by my fingers as I felt around for a foothold. Even then, every step restored the high, the rush of air against my flailing limbs, the press of gravity tight around my ankles; I had to climb for a long time, but I loved every second of it, every time my boots lost their grip, every time my fingers screamed from the pull of my weight. I pretended I was blind just for the excuse to close my eyes, to force myself to feel my way along the walls, to search blindly for a salvation I wouldn't know until I had seized it. I traced myself back over the shadow of former lives, when I was younger, when I was older, when I was older even then that, until finally I was back where I had been the night before, crouching in a window box and tapping with trembling hands against the cracked and dusty glass.

I almost didn't want anyone to find me, but by the third try a servant pried open the hinges and threw open the pane, their surprise muffled by the understanding that flashed behind their eyes. "Be careful," they had whispered, helping me into the otherwise empty room. I nodded in response, but could manage no more then that.

The corridors were quiet and still, the heaviness in the air from the rain seeping in through cracks in the stone. I enjoyed the smell, the feeling of the dampness against my cheeks, and as I dragged my fingers against the wall, watched the skin rub off from the friction, the moistness pool against my hand, I found I enjoyed that too. It was like the world was saturated, clouded with an intensity no one could place; it cushioned me from my pain, from the building pool of dread I could feel growing low in my abdomen, angry now, furious like a neglected bird of prey. The pain mounted steadily, twisting and turning until I could hardly walk, until even the adrenaline rush of walking past people I knew, people with names I could remember and faces I could trace from memory, did nothing for me. A few of them reached out, smells hot and spicy and mild and vague, running fast against me, but I pushed past them all. Did I apologize? Did they expect me to? Should I know?

It was Eren that stopped me, Eren that made my blood run cold, Eren that made my face colour with life and my back stiffen with hidden resolve. Eren. It had always been Eren.

"Where have you been?" he asked, dragging his hands up my arms, cupping my chin, chasing drops of water down my neck. "You're soaked through."

I met his eyes like I craved the feeling of them boring into mine, like I sought little more in the world then the sensation of guilt clawing at my throat, roaring in the back of my mind. I should have told him the truth, told him I had climbed onto the roof in a drunken stupor, that I had fallen off one of the higher-most parapets and for a split second thought I was dying; I should have told him about the storm, about the lightning so close I could taste it, about the thunder so loud it had made my bones shake. But Eren...Eren deserved better then that. Eren deserved the lie.

"I had been in town," I said, the story coming so easily to me, so easily. "I got caught in the rain."

Eren shook his head skeptically. "The storm has been raging for hours."

"I was hoping to wait it out," I continued, my heart beginning to race with how close Eren had become, how hot his breath was against my collarbone. "But I...I didn't think I could wait forever. It's just water."

I tried to laugh. I remember that because of the way the sound rattled around in my chest, the rumble that slipped down my spine into the soles of my shoes, the shaky cough that scaled quick and soundless up and down the sides of my throat. My pain was so obvious, so close to Eren it was all but pushing against him, screaming at his feet, reaching for his shoulders. Could he see it? Could he see the way I was suffering?

"You're going to catch a cold," he said, slipping out of his jacket, the one with the ribbons and sashes and green embroidery. "Here. Take off your shirt."

I refused it, once, twice, then again. "My room is only a few floors below us," I insisted, gesturing to the floor like I could pick out the shadow my room cast against the stones. "I'll make it. And besides, you need that. I'm sure you have somewhere important to be."

Eren was frowning now, and when he asked again, there was a urgency in his eyes, an honest, unrestrained concern, almost as if he could imagine this supposed illness claiming me even now, so sudden and strong I would collapse into his arms like a corpse before he could so much as cry out. Now my refusal hesitated, torn by his showmanship, distracted by the way this emotion played on his face, tugged at his jaw. He saw that, recognized it, and pushed his jacket forward again, more insistent this time. "For me," he whispered.

I hated the way he said that, the plea he felt he needed to add, the beg, the wish. I wanted to tell him the truth, that I liked the discomfort, the irritating scratch of wet clothing against my skin, the smell of must and dirt and dust and ash, the taste of bile and alcohol and salt and soil. But again, Eren deserved better. And maybe...maybe I did, too.

My sigh brightened his face, my hands reaching without reluctance for waterlogged buttons all but imprinted against my chest. "Alright, alright," I conceded, "give it here."

But as I reached the bottom button, felt the fabric begin to slip from my shoulders, I freaked. There was no way to hide that reaction, no word or phrase or excuse that I could have used to cover it up, but it didn't matter-suddenly I was strangled by fear, fire and ice burning through my veins with so much violence I saw red.

Eren, of course, saw none of this. In his eyes I just flushed, bright and obvious, and turned away out of shyness, my choked sound one of embarrassment and sheepishness. He was laughing, filling the corridor with the brilliance of the sound, and without needing to speak just draped the silky material of his jacket over my head and rubbed at what of my hair he could still reach, kissing my cheek fleetingly before walking away without so much as a backwards glance.

The moment I was alone, the moment I was sure he was gone, gone so far that if he appeared again, stuck his head out from around the corner, opened a door, peered through a window, he would be too late to see. My knees buckled and I clutched the sides of my shirt to my chest, pulling them so taunt I could hear the seams tearing, the clothing giving out under my horror.

In a single split second, a blink, a heartbeat, I had almost betrayed myself. But in that same split second, fraction of a breath, sliver of a moment, I had been saved. I looked at my hands, at the faint traces of blood that filled my palms, at the sweat that lined my knuckles; they were hands, they were skin, that was blood, that was sweat, but underneath I was death.

/

The library was my haven, my hideaway, the place I ran to when I lonely and empty and scared and haunted. I loved so much about it, the smell of old paper, the sound of turning pages crinkled with age, the terrible black stains I could get on my fingertips and never completely wash out, but today, on that day, I remembered none of that. I went to the library because I felt safe there, hidden and protected by the towering stacks and heavy books and tainted sunlight that filtered in through ever-frosted windows. I went to the library because I thought no one would find me there, and for a few hours, I was right.

The silence lied to me, lied to me like I lied to Eren, like I lied to the world, like I lied to myself. The stillness lied to me too, but of different things, things the danced with light and passion and heartbreak and trauma. I chased them for a while, running through the isles, turning back to walk, falling on the floor, tracing in the dust. I was wanton, a muddle of anger and pain and distaste and chaos. I was...I was confused.

My way of thinking, if you could call it that, had always been systematic, a map that showed the rivers running towards the ocean, a constellation with points set forever immobile in the sky. But there were some days, like this, every few weeks, where I could hold nothing in my head but a few fleeting images, of black lines on a sandy piece of parchment, of two wings crossing at the center of a square, of fire that burned blue and eyes so green I could almost count the stars. It made me want to run, to fling myself across a canyon that went on forever, to taste the rush as it hit my throat, to scream and yell until I had nothing left in my lungs but the smell of sand and sweat. I wanted that, maybe more than anything, but I was here, and I was trapped, and that was all.

I needed time to slow, to cradle me gently in a grasp that was both tender and loving; I needed time to stroke my hair, play with my nose, fiddle with my hands. I just needed to breathe, even if only for an instant.

Drawing helped, for a while. There was a rhythm to the movement of the pencil, the scrap of the charcoal against the paper; there was a magic to the shapes, a moment I almost couldn't predict, a freedom little else in the world inspired. I pulled out any book with a title that caught my eye, books of mythology and architecture and horses and oceans. I drew until my sketchbook bled my imagination dry, until my eyes were sore and my tongue tasted like wood. I drew until I could hardly think anymore, until my hand moved all on its own, until I completely and utterly lost myself in something that had never, and would never, hurt me. I drew myself drunk.

Then there was a shadow, sudden and all at once. My light was gone, swallowed by a horrible blackness that came with no explanation, no warning. Then there was a voice.

"Having fun?" it asked.

I looked up, as slowly as I could manage, and tried to look unsurprising. "Jean?"

The prince of Trost was smiling, eager and easy, playful and flirtatious. He raised an eyebrow, curiosity pulling at his features, a million words trapped behind his lips but none seeming to find the courage to break loose. Watching this, staring so openly there was no excuse, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a need to kiss him, to steal those letters from his tongue and learn the ridges of every one. I could, couldn't I? Would he stop me?

I dropped my gaze, startled from my thoughts as my pencil clattered onto the floor. I reached for it immediately, but as it fit against my hand, as the wood scraped against my skin, I paused. I needed something to say. Something. Anything.

"Are you alright?" Jean asked, moving now to face me. There was an armchair in his way, filled mostly by the books I had been copying from, but he didn't try and push them away. He was waiting, waiting for me to invite him, waiting for me to tell him it was okay.

But it wasn't, it couldn't be. He shouldn't be here.

"I'm fine," I said, rolling my pencil back between the pages of my sketchbook. "Just a little tired, I guess. Long night."

My shrug must have convinced him, because he nodded in understanding. "Long night for all of us," he agreed, shoving his hands into his pockets and angling himself so he could lean against the wall, lean just enough to catch the failing sunlight against his chest and tangle it along the outline of his muscles through his shirt.

"You're beautiful," I murmured, the admission slipping right past me before I could stop it.

Jean was a quiet for a moment, then blushed from his forehead to his neck. He edged away from the window, as if it had tricked me somehow, that I had mistaken him just then for someone else. "Oh, uh, yeah, thanks."

His bashfulness made me smile, my amusement so genuine I could almost ignore the madness that had seized me a moment before. Where had that come from?

Jean was struggling with something else now, his ability to language just blah. It took a few moments, but eventually he steeled his nerve again. "You can't say things like that to me," he said, his confidence making his body relax, his voice strengthen. "The mountain should never compliment the painter."

The quote surprised me, even more so then the compliment, but that faded quickly enough; soon it was my turn to blush, just a little, along the tops of my cheeks. "You're terrible," I snapped, gathering my things together, my eyes down, my face hidden behind my hair. "You should save your best lines for Eren."

As I was getting up, the stack of books unsteady in my hands, Jean reached out and urged me to wait. His touch was oddly tender, not restrictive in any sense, and after a moment I caved in to the warmth of his fingers, the embrace of his waiting presence.

"Yes?" I asked, letting him take books from my pile, place them carefully on the floor.

"Will you stay awhile?" He asked, his voice soft now, light and airy. "Can I sit with you?"

I should have refused, just as I had refused the night before-but like the night before, I couldn't, not forever. It was different now, though, the tension between us less cautious, more curious. Was he searching for the chemistry he had felt when we danced together? And what did that say about me, as I let him?

I settled back into my chair, bringing my knees up to my chest. Jean sat close by in the other chair, leafing through the topmost book in the stack. "Can you draw any of these?" He asked, pointing to an illustration of a griffin. "Have you?"

Talking about art was easy; it was the implication hidden behind it, the teasing, the games, that made it hard. Jean was watching everything about me, the way I moved my hands, the way my feet moved against the upholstery. In turn, almost without meaning to, I found myself watching him, the way his weight shifted from leg to leg, the way his mouth moved as he talked. We were testing each other, somehow, wondering without words about whether or not the previous night had been a fluke, a wild chance, maybe even a miracle. Maybe it had been all of those things.

"Let me draw something for you," I finally allowed, leaning back in my chair, crossing my legs as they dropped onto the ground. "Pick any of the books, any picture, and I'll draw it for you."

The offer threw him, I think, but he liked the challenge. As he searched, book after book, I finally got a chance to catch my breath, to admit that whatever there had been between us, whatever it had been, was over. Things were different now, better, safer, and I was okay with that.

"I think I know what I want," Jean finally said, closing the book soundlessly in his hands. There was a brief hesitation, and I half-expected him to tell me to make something up-instead, he said, "draw you."

The request was unexpected, so much so I could only stare open-mouthed at him for a long, long moment. "I...can't," I managed at last, struggling to come up with a reason why, why the idea made my heart race, why the mere thought made my head feel light. "I can't...imagine watching me stand in front of a mirror for an hour would be very fun."

That last piece had come out in a rush, but I was ultimately satisfied with the excuse. Jean, however, was not about to take that as an answer.

"You don't need a mirror," he said, leaning forward to rest his chin on his fist. "I'll be the mirror. Just draw."

There was no commanding edge to his voice, no finality, but still I sensed the impossibility I knew I would confront if I tried to refuse. Just like how I had known I would dance with him, I knew I would do this for him; there just wasn't anything else I could have wanted to do.

I started slow, with the shape of my head. Jean was methodical, moving from my brow to my chin, the start of my hairline to the last sliver of every strand. My ears were small, he said, but proportional; my eyes were round and wide, my nose sloped this way, my forehead angled that way. He used technical terms, blunt and to the point, his concentration leading to an exactness I appreciated. There was nothing suggestive in this, just an artist and his commissioner, just an artist and his subject. It was almost too easy.

Jean reached my lips last, gave me a shape, a line, an edge, a crease. He was more careful here then anywhere else, his description catching every minute detail, no matter how small.

It hadn't been his words. It hadn't been the way he made me smile, even though, as I drew, I couldn't manage anything more than neutrality. It hadn't even been the moment he reached out, his finger a ghost against my lips, the movement innocent but fierce as lighting. It had been his eyes, honing in, closer and closer, his eyes as they watched my lips move with the beginnings of speech I had all at once forgotten. It had been his lips, moving now, following after his hand, reaching, reaching.

I don't remember exactly what happened next, only a flash. I was on my feet, my papers scattered all along the floor, my body tense with shock. I remember running, remember flinching at the sound of his voice, at the call of my name. But more then anything, anything at all, I remember not stopping, even once, to look back.


	5. Truth, Lies, and Storytelling

* * *

_Jean_

* * *

 

I hadn't meant to follow Armin into the library, but I won't lie—when I saw him slip past the worn wooden doors, when the sunlight from an open window inside just caught on the edge of his exposed skin, when the tiniest of smiles sparked across his face, I was a lost cause. We hadn't spoken much, outside of the coronation night, flashes of conversation swallowed by crowds and distance, but with ease I could recall the pounding of my heart when I held his hand as we danced together, the rushing of the blood in my ears as he laughed at my terrible jokes, the breathlessness that plagued me when he sought me out, again and again and again, as each dance ended, as our bodies parted, our contact broken. _Ask me again_ , his eyes seemed to say, _ask me again, and I won’t say no._

Even now, I wasn't sure I was handling the situation with enough tact. Was I coming across too strong? Was that a terrible thing? As my fingers wrapped around the brass of the library doorknob, I considered by objective again, dismissing it without more than a few moments' thought. I felt something real, with Armin, something I hadn't felt in a long time; if I passed it up, I knew I would regret it for the rest of my life.

The library was surprisingly warm when I pushed inside, so much so that I could almost see the heat clinging in dusty streamers across the ground and bookcases. A single window laid propped open against the far wall, glorious in its floor-to-ceiling height, but the tiny panels near the center allowed in only the tail-end of a healthy breeze, shifting dust along ancient spines and little more. I loosened my collar, letting the topmost buttons swell under the pressure of my hand and give out with breathless sighs; the relief was immediate, but only temporary.

Armin wasn't difficult to track, but for the most part, I left him alone. The library was large and expansive, and although I could read only poorly, I found a few of the tombs almost too interesting to completely ignore. There were well-loved geography books in a neat stack near the center aisle, and judging from the small tears in the corners near the spine, the last few readers were hasty in their excitement to flip through the pages as quickly as possible. I hadn't expected to find myself so distracted—not with Armin only a few shelves behind me—but something about the books called out to me, making me kneel down in the dust beside them, spreading them wide across my lap. The colour was astounding, if faded, and each page seemed to scream of an adventure just waiting to be taken; there were mountains and oceans and hillsides and prairies, a glorious kind of beautiful that captivated as much as inspired. I didn't need to have seen him hold them, leaf through them, to know it must have been Armin with these books—there was just something...I can't say, I really don't know.

I replaced the texts as I had found them, trying to make the pile look undisturbed, and for a while I explored the rest of the library, catching only the barest glimpses of Armin as he pushed a rolling ladder across the far wall, leaning out dangerously far from the rungs to reach books that were out of my line of sight. He seemed so at ease here, the comfort and compassion on his face for the sea of words that surrounded him almost forcing me out the door. Maybe I had no right to bother him here, to intrude on whatever he was doing. I would see him again, surely; he deserved a little of his own time.

I was halfway back to the door when I realized Armin wasn't in the stacks any longer, wasn't much of anywhere, in fact, and before I could stop myself I had set off after him, curious where he had tucked himself away. The large window petered out into a line of smaller ones, thin strips of colour and light that filtered lazily through the space like a timeline leading nowhere at all. Near the end, tucked in a corner, I found him nestled between two chairs, the one in front of the one he was sitting in filled high with the books, the other supporting his angled body as he bent low over something he was working on.

I should have known better—really, what in the world was I thinking?—but the sight of him there, alone, wrapped in concentration, drew me helplessly. My boots made hardly a sound as I crossed the hardwood, the only noise the sound of a pencil being dragged with rapid precision back and forth across his page, the shape of something vague and complicated emerging under Armin's hands. I had thought he would look up, notice me from the sound of my breath or the light swish of my jacket tails, but he was too absorbed in the passion that had seized him, the magic in his eyes burning with the a power that bled through his fingers and stained his pages in long lines of black and grey. Blocking his light hadn't been intentional, but suddenly I was so close I could just smell the charcoal on his hands, see the stains underneath his fingernails; he seemed to still, then, as my shadow draped across his paper, but he didn’t react noticeably until I spoke.

"Having fun?" I asked.

He looked up, finally, just as the words were leaving my lips, and I watched with mild amusement as his eyes strayed there, fleetingly noting the rest of my face before dropping lower. I raised my eyebrow, smiling with a surge of both courage and paralyzing shyness, loving the way he seemed to slip into a daydream, his lack of focus betraying something I was only too hopeful to guess.

Suddenly his pencil slipped from his grip and clattered onto the floor, rolling across the hardwood until coming to rest gently against the leg of the forward-facing chair. Armin moved immediately to retrieve it, taking his time, seeming to steel himself. When he met my gaze again he was more collected, but clearly still thrown by my unannounced appearance. Shit, did he think I was stalking him? Had I been? Dear god, this was already a disaster.

"Are you alright?" I asked, trying to break the tension. I walked around the chair to better face him, moving closer to the window, letting the light break over my shoulder to bathe his workspace with what I had momentarily stolen. Could I sit? Should I ask him?

"I'm fine," he said at last, stopping my questions in their tracks. "Just a little tired, I guess. Long night."

His shrug was dismissive, so I didn't think to ask him to elaborate. "Long night for all of us," I said with a nod, needing to back away from the apprehension I sensed building in Armin's eyes. When my back struck the wall instead of more space, I decided to stay there, shoving my hands in my pockets, doing all that I could to look more relaxed, less intimidating. There was sunlight everywhere, spluttering in its last few minutes before slipping into darkness. Could Armin see the sunset through the window just behind me? Was that why was he was staring at—

"You're beautiful," he said abruptly, his voice low, his admission soft.

Oh, yeah, okay, that explains everything.

Wait.

_Fuck._

His amusement offset my embarrassment only a touch, my fluster moving steadily from the center of my chest to the roots in my hairline. I all but sprang from the window, almost in denial of my earlier train of thought, almost in alarm at the betrayal of my innocent assumption. I mumbled something in response, I know I did, but the words were like kindling beneath the tongue of a starving fire, disappearing in a flash to leave no trace behind but the hint that once there had been something there.

In my ridiculously long moment of madness, my mind sprang frantically from memory to memory in a desperate attempt to remember anything that could save this situation from getting any worse. I couldn't just accept his complement with a nod and a giggle and then pretend like nothing had happened; no, I needed to shift the ball back into my court, level this game out again in my favour. I found my confidence when I fixated on the books I had stumbled onto earlier, the vistas of panoramic wilderness triggering a recall I could not have been more thankful for. "You can't say those kinds of things to me," I said, hoping that sounded just gentle enough to be playful. "The mountain should never compliment the painter."

I realized the wisdom in my choice of quote almost immediately, because despite Armin's best attempt to hide his face beneath his hair, I caught sight of a bloom of redness that touched his cheeks just before he turned away. I should have thrown out a few more, but I couldn't remember where that quote had come from, or even entirely what it meant (something akin to 'calling the kettle black' maybe? shit); instead, I was pushed into silence by his reply. "You're terrible,” he said, still not meeting my eyes. “You should save your best lines for Eren."

Eren. Of course. That little shit with his heartless eyes and greedy hands and groundless arrogance. Even playing prince he was the same as he'd always been, the ambition of his father playing out just behind the cracks in his formal persona, his self-confidence a mockery to those who really had any. We had spent little time together as children, sure, but even then I had known we would never be friends; there was a roughness to him I disliked, an aura about his head that smelled of lies and naivety. Even now, only a few years after he had narrowly avoided death, he treated life no differently, so ungrateful for his second chance even in the face of all those the disease had taken. I remember what it was like, being sick; I knew my role as a survivor, to help all those I could, and I hated that Eren did nothing.

Armin got up, just then, and busied himself with moving some of the books on his lap into his arms as if he meant to hurry between the shelves and dash out of sight. I reacted instinctually and reached for him, finding his arm, asking softly if he would wait. He hesitated, allowing our contact even as I started moving books from his unsteady pile onto the floor, and all at once I felt as if I had broached an impasse, an impasse I had the opportunity to now abandon, now and only now, if I truly had no intention of trying to cross.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

I spoke before I knew what to say. "Will you stay awhile? Can I sit with you?"

And there it was, plain and simple. If he told me to leave, I knew I could not bother him again, not today, maybe not even ever again, but he didn't refuse, he didn't reject me, and instead helped me empty his unclaimed chair, settling back into his own, bringing his knees up, tucking his face partially behind his legs. For a while, we talked, and for a while, it was easy; but then it wasn't, it really wasn't.

I can't have said what it was, the sight of his slender knees pressed up against his chest, the absentminded biting of his lower lip, the glint of something almost mischievous in his beautiful, beautiful eyes, but I was hopelessly spellbound, hypnotized by a wild mix of attraction and embarrassment and desire like nothing I'd ever experienced before. My resolve in pieces, my confidence destabilized, my heart rate a mockery of subtly to any degree, I knew it was only a matter of time before I made a mistake; if I hadn't been so desperate not to fuck this up, so insistent to keep my feelings in check, I probably would have just gaped like a fool and spilled by heart across his lap— _there’s something about you_ , I would have said, stammering and stumbling like I was drunk. _Something magnetic. Let’s date._

I don't know what stopped me, I really haven't the faintest clue, but the words drowned in my throat and left me with only fragments. They bled into the conversation, as I questioned Armin about his art, words like "passion" and "love" and "dreams" and "need", words that meant next to nothing on their own but seemed to ignite into a wildfire as they left my tongue. If Armin noticed at all...

"Let me draw something for you," Armin suddenly offered, leaning back in his chair and dropping his legs onto the floor so he could cross them above the knee. "Pick any of the books, any picture, and I'll draw it for you."

It was foolish request, really, because even as I held the first book in my hands I knew exactly what it was that I wanted. But I leafed through them anyway, pausing on a few with more detail then I could ignore, stalling until the evitable. "I think I know what I want," I said as I closed the fourth book between my hands, trying to make it sound as if the idea had only just struck me. "Draw you."

He gaped openly at me, his lips parted just slightly, until finally he recomposed himself and stammered through an awkward and wordy reason why he had to refuse.

"You don't need a mirror," I told him, leaning forward on my knees and resting my chin on my fist. "I'll be the mirror. Just draw."

I kept my tone professional for as long as I possibly could. After all, it was just a head, just hair, just ears, just eyes. I was careful in my description, staying miles and miles away from anything that could at all be interpreted as suggestive—he was just a model, just an example, and this needn't be anything more than that. Eventually, though, I found myself with most of his face under his hand, his pencil beginning to slow as I failed to add more to my list of instructions. Did he have a nose? Was I finished with his forehead? Sweet mother...

Describing his lips without an ulterior motive was impossible. How many hours had I stared at them while we danced, wishing I could catch them beneath my own, pulling the softest, neediest sounds from his delicate throat? How long had I stayed up last night, staring at the ceiling, too drunk to stop the flood of fantasies that pooled just under my mind's eye? This was crazy, everything was crazy, and yet I wanted him, needed him, like a prepubescent boy with his first crush. Was I allowed to like him this much? Was I allowed to feel this level of attraction for someone I hardly knew?

I made him smile, in the picture, despite his concentration robbing his expression of much beyond impassivity, and that was all I had as an excuse to touch his lips. Had I meant to, as I reached out my hand? Had I meant to trace the ridges of his skin to his cheek, his jaw, his chin? Had I meant to lean forward, greedy, thoughtless?

It was just supposed to be a kiss.

He pulled back, initially, just a little, just enough to make me think he meant to stay, but then he ran, dramatic and sudden, like a hurricane. There was paper all over the floor, abandoned like unloved children's toys, and all at once I was left with only my shame and my grief, pained by a loss I should have known was coming, pained by a loss I knew full well was a result of my own foolishness.

/

I stayed frozen in place for a long time, the minutes almost palpable on my tongue. Armin's seat, empty now, seemed to still hold the signature of his presence, like a room haunted by the ghost of a terrible fight; I stared blankly straight ahead, hating myself, hating everything. Numb to the touch, I fell to my knees in the dust, letting the creeping touch of darkness tangle along my folded body. As feeling slowly returned to me, from my fingers to my toes, I moved stiffly, my hands landing clumsily on the scattered paperwork and pushing them haphazardly into a messy pile. The repetition of the movement was therapeutic, and soon my heart rate slowed and my breathing leveled out. I would be fine. Everything would be fine.

I walked out of the library with Armin's papers pressed tight against my chest, the edges crinkling around the buttons of my waistcoat. I struggled not to keep them so close, not to leave imprints in the midst of the beautiful, hand-drawn illustrations, but something about them seemed to respond when they were near my skin, almost as if I could absorb the love that had gone into every line, every curve. It was selfish, really, and borderline possessive, but it was all I had; by now, I was second guessing everything I had done, everything I had said. Had I mistaken Armin's fluster for anger, flirtation for dismissal? Had I made him uncomfortable? Should I have backed off? Was he only being polite? The questions were a kind of maddening I was unaccustomed to facing, and with my confidence shattered, my hope precarious, I abandoned any attempt I had planned to try and find him, electing to return to my room instead and wait all of this out.

But Armin never came back, not for his artwork and not for me, not that night, not the next day, not even within in the next week, and as the days began to bleed together, the mornings, the afternoons, the times between, I felt my chances shredding before my eyes. God, what had I done? What had I done?

/

Admitting to myself that I had blown my chance was brutal, but refusing to accept the truth of the matter seemed a more terrible alternative. I was a grown man, mature, experienced—I could handle rejection better than this, surely. But I sulked, day after day, in the quiet way that someone too proud to accept failure was bound to. I ate meals in silence, brooding in my isolation, and spoke only when spoken directly to; the other suitors, who liked me well enough, encouraged chatter, but gave me space when they realized the depth of my disposition. "Eren say something to you?" They'd always ask, seeming to believe that there was no other likely reason for my depression. _It’s not like that,_ I wanted to say, but when I opened my mouth, nothing rose from my throat. It...it was just easier to shake my head and keep my eyes on my food.

It was harder having to see him, having to face him, because he stared right through me, his eyes glimmering with the tiniest spark of emotion I feared to ever face directly. Was it regret? Bitterness? If I asked, would his words cut through me like his gaze did, baring my bones, burning my wounds? Maybe it was better this way, not knowing; at least, it had to be better, didn't it?

After about two weeks, Eren announced that he was beginning the second rounds of dates. The first half of the month had, of course, been reserved for those with the highest standing, the most wealth, the most importance, and after entertaining them, the rest of us could now have our chance at a courtship. I wasn't sure this was still something I wanted, even if my parents were so insistent I at least try, but when he asked me, _first_ , to step outside with him, I pushed my apprehension aside and agreed.

"You're from Trost?" He asked, his face hard to read. What kind of question was that? Couldn't he just look it up?

"Yes," I said, careful to keep pace with him and not hurry on ahead. "Just a little south-west of Wall Maria."

He nodded at this, a consideration forming along the creases near his lips. I tried again to understand him, his posture, his stance. Why the informality? The privacy? We walked for what felt like miles, winding along the castle grounds until a lush, well-kept garden reared up out of the earth and welcomed us. It was a distraction I appreciated; the flowers and trees were a convincing replacement for my attention, my eyes straying to Eren's face only when he thought to speak, to identity herbs, to make small-talk. His steps were precise now, caution keeping his fancy boots clean, the edges of his dark blue suit snagging on only the gentle breeze. He was...dashing, I suppose, if such a word could be applied to someone who inspired such disapproval from me; it was the way he carried himself—arrogant, yes, but poised, and commanding—it was the way he spoke, like his words were secrets meant only for me, and the way he watched me, with eyes that locked out everything else. The persona flickered, of course, but the man beneath this shell had positive qualities too. He was curious about me, I think, and that curiousity mixed with a mild fascination I had earned from—

But from what? Over the last two weeks I had seen Eren only a handful of times, at the head of the front table at dinner, sometimes in the streets at the market during low traffic hours, but we'd only spoken at the ball, and, if anything, he had seemed agitated with me. I hadn't given that much thought at the time, but now that I was confronted with the opportunity, I wondered why. I assumed it had to be because of Armin, the blond the only reason there was anything besides courtesy between us. They had danced together, yes, but everyone knew Mikasa had disappeared, everyone knew Armin wasn't in the running for the throne, so why the tension?

I almost asked Eren, but Armin's name would not form on my lips. It wasn't my business, if Eren had an older-brother complex with Armin, and bringing him up would probably not end well. After all, I was here for Eren, wasn't I? Maybe I needed to remember that.

"I hope this doesn't count as our date," I said suddenly, brushing a low-hanging tree branch from his path. "Because if you want me to show you a good time, I know a better place than the palace gardens."

Eren raised his eyebrow, the blatant interest in his expression catching me completely off-guard. "I'm sure you do," he said, his tone playful, almost teasing. "But if you're trying to ask me out, you'll need something a little more creative than that."

The realization must have showed in my eyes, because he smiled with just enough devious intent to make my insides twist with humiliation. He'd played me, knowing I'd make a move eventually, expecting it; I'd tell the others, how being forward was the way Eren liked it, and some of them would pass it on, some wouldn't, and that was how he'd weed us out, one by one. How long would everyone have to realize the stakes? A month? Two? Who would be cut for simply ignoring gossip?

"You're not wasting much time, are you?" I asked, forcing back the strength in my voice. "But why me first? Does that count for something?"

He shrugged this time, pulling at a loose thread on his sleeve cuff. "Maybe," he said, fixing me with a stare that hid nothing. "Do you plan to find out?"

Oh, he was a bastard. His expression was as much a challenge as anything else, a dare, a provocation. How far was I going to push this? How far did I want to? How many others had he trapped this way?

I leaned forward, taking his body in my arms. His hands found purchase on my shoulder, my chest, not stopping me, but urging me. _Will you? Will you?_ His shockingly green eyes seemed to ask me. _Can you?_

The castle wall broke our backwards tumble, his teeth jarring a little at the impact. He was smiling now, pulling at my collar, tugging at my shirt. How many times had he been kissed this way, shoved into the darkness where no one would see, the princes and princesses of bigger cities, richer cities, claiming his lips with their own like a mother the forehead of her newborn?

I laughed, bringing my lips so close to his I could feel his breath slip down my shirt and tickle my skin. I kissed his cheek, fleeting, dangerous, and whispered, "If anyone needs to try harder, it's you."

/

We went on our formal date a week later, to the day, and explored the shadier parts of town. This was my play, my round of the game, and Eren seemed more than eager to try and outsmart me. The cheaper taverns threw shifty characters every which way, the viciousness in their eyes as they beheld the prince something that unhinged him, even if he wouldn't admit it; the reactions were similar in the lower markets, the movement fast paced, the space crowded, and animals smelly—nothing, I knew, like the pristine conditions Eren was more used to when visiting the higher end stalls closer to the castle. Still, Eren smiled at everyone all the same, letting the dirt on his clothing spoil into stains, the grime tangled in his hair harden into globs of muck. It was...actually kind of impressive.

"This was fun," he said with a laugh, taking a long draw from the filthy mug placed before him by a greasy barkeep at one of the taverns we’d passed, "but you're an ass."

"Takes one to know one," I replied, my tone just as pleasant as his own. "Glad we finally addressed that."

To my surprise, Eren laughed again, more genuine this time. "I was wrong about you," he admitted, leaning back on the edge of his stool. "But you're not the first one to try this tactic, and you're far from the best at executing it."

"I find that hard to believe," I replied, but I knew the boast was empty; this had never been about getting Eren to like me, but instead, to intrigue him. That would keep me here for a few more weeks, and in that time, maybe I could—

Forgetting about Armin had become a necessity, but it was difficult, even without being on speaking terms. I just couldn't accept that I had so drastically misread his feelings, and, more than that, I refused to accept that I couldn't fix this, that I couldn't try my hand again at stealing some of his time. But such thoughts served little purpose; we were never alone, and the few times we were, neither of us could get more than a nod out. It had gotten better, the lack of acknowledgement growing into a quiet, fleeting nod, but it wasn't the same, it wasn't like before. There was nothing easy in our relationship, nothing self-evident; we were strangers again, the only thing between us that sense of something more, something special, once existing.

Stepping from my thoughts, shaking my head just a touch, I found Eren's eyes on mine, his elbow on the counter, his chin in his hand. "Thinking looks painful for you," he said, "clearly you don't do it often."

"Only as the situation demands," I retorted, mimicking his posture. "Maybe if you weren't such boring company, I'd have more reason to."

Eren actually looked a little affronted, but he shrugged it off. "Like you're such a delight," he snapped, irritated, but not really. "What kind of company are you more used to?"

I paused a moment, considering the question more seriously than I had almost anything else all day. "Soldiers, I guess," I admitted, "Trost sees a lot of them, traveling back and forth between Wall Maria and Wall Rose. They're hardy conversation, like you pretend to be."

I was toeing the line, I realized a moment too late, but Eren didn’t call me out on it. "Have you ever fought a Titan?" He demanded instead, folding his arms across his chest. "Do you even know what they look like, or do you just nod when the soldiers spin lies around your tiny head?"

"Like you've ever seen one, big shot," I said dismissively, "I bet your father hasn't even let you stand on the edge of any of the Walls."

Eren's eyes were steeling with each of my words, hardening with an anger I hadn't expected from him. "I've fought a Castor," he said in a deathly whisper. "I watched one kill my mother. Want to say that again?"

... _fuck_.

Scrambling to cool Eren's sudden rage was needless, for moments later, all the fire in his eyes gave out. Leaning over the counter, he motioned for another drink, downing it without meeting my gaze. "Sorry," he said, "that was unprofessional. Forgive me."

I wasn't sure what had happened, but the Eren sitting beside me was no longer the Eren I had come to know. His walls were back up, and the princely persona again stood at the forefront of his mannerisms; he was courteous again, poised, gentile, and despite my careful prodding, he said nothing else about his outburst, clarified nothing of the horror he has just inadvertently shared with me. We left the tavern in a feigned amenity so forced it was almost painful.

/

That night, I slept fitfully. Every hour, or every few, I awoke to the terrifying sound of something moving just out of sight, shadows or clouds or darkness or blackness, creeping and creaking with sighs so soft I knew I had imagined them. Each time, I reached for my sword with more and more force, until finally I had drawn it entirely from its sheath only to drop it onto the floor, the steel ringing out loudly in the silence of the night. I squinted at it from my place on the bed, my chest heaving, my heart thundering. What was wrong with me?

The stone was cold where the carpet didn't reach, and although I could have inspected my sword somewhere else, I stayed next to where it had fallen. My reflection was only a slit on the length of the blade, my eyes bloodshot, but over my shoulder, through the window, I could see only calm, the sky a midnight blue that glowed with the fullness of the moon. I sought the freshness of the wind, but the clasp wouldn't give under my fingers, my hand too big, my eyesight too blurry. Eventually, in a quiet admittance of my own uselessness, I simply rested my head against the glass and let the coolness seep through my fear.

I knew no more about Castors than anyone else, I guess, but just imagining a young Eren, before his sickness, maybe after, staring down one of those monsters, it made my legs feel weak. Titans were menacing, of course, eight feet tall, ten, twelve, fifteen, but Castors were something else, something demonic. The stories said they had massive, leathery wings, dark scales that shone like light off spilled blood, eyes that burned with a fire from hell; they were strong, and fast, and powerful, commanders of the elements, of magic greater than anything still known to man. They could make the earth swallow mountains as if the soil had teeth, they could transform oceans into beasts with a hundred thousand claws; they were nightmares, born from death itself, fearsome as nothing else in all the world.

Those were just stories, though, and for the moment that was all I could cling to. The queen's death had hardly seemed shrouded in mystery, but being killed by a _Castor?_ No, that was definitely not in the official version of events that had been spread throughout the country. She had gotten sick, like so many others, and had died. Simple.

But no. I could almost see it, as if it were happening right now, across the room from me. The way the creature would have materialized from the shadows, hungry, violent, tearing through the body of the sleeping queen like it was made of cloth, blood splattering on the walls and draining into the cracks between the stones that lined the floor.

Why was I imagining this? I shook my head, rubbing at the sweat that had beaded along my neck and down my back. That was the violence I had seen in Eren's eyes, the shadow of horror I had seen slithering through his words. Had he walked in? And if he had, how had he survived?

There were too many questions here for me to ever understand, so with a sigh, I tried the window again. This time I managed to unlock the panes and push open the glass, allowing in the caressing breeze with a smile that almost replaced the worry lines that were tugging at my jaw. The sill was thick, so I leaned out, the wind like threads through my hair, pulling me along, as if trying to prompt me into the night sky. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation, the promise of sweeter dreams, but it didn't last.

There was the sound of falling stone, and with a start, I turned my head. There, maybe four or five rooms from my window, maybe one or two floors above me, was Armin, his arm holding a thin column on the edge of a tiny, sloped, and precarious landing.

The dislodged stone, it turned out, had been from under his left foot, and as the limb dangled dangerously over the colossal drop beneath him, he started laughing. It was a musical sound, like it had been at the ball, but higher now, more breathless, less refined. I tried to call out to him, but I was paralyzed by confusion and terror, watching as he threw out his right arm and let it catch in the wind, his other arm following, until there was nothing but his tiny, tiny right leg keeping him on the sloped landing, his body swaying weightlessly in the wind.

I watched him fall, again and again and again, each time he tipped, each time he seemed to lose his balance; my heart dropped every time, my emotions caught in an unforgiving whirlwind. But he didn't fall, didn't even stumble, and instead moved like the sail on a ship, shifting with the breeze, letting it curl around him, keep him up, keep him alive. I couldn't see his expression from here, but I could guess the ease captured there; his body betrayed that, the ecstasy he was feeling, the ecstasy he was craving. When he finally leaned back, taking hold of the pillar with a sudden quickness, he started laughing again; the cheery sound was beautiful, if eerie, despite the situation that had summoned it.

I shut my window moments later, confident Armin was safe (if mentality unstable), and returned to my bed feeling more awake than could even be possible. Eren fighting Castors, Armin flirting with death...just who in the world were these people? What was the truth behind the secrets they were both so clearly keeping? And fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , why did it matter to me that I find out?


End file.
